Addictions

I actually took the whole weekend off. Well….almost…I did just one lesson Saturday morning. My mother and her fiancé, Peter, were flying up for the weekend so I planned a weekend of food, wine and music.

We picked them up from Inverness Airport on Saturday afternoon, then headed straight over to Ullapool. Despite my doom and gloom post recently, moaning about our ‘summer’, and despite the fact that our best weather rarely coincides with mum’s visits, the last few days have been spectacularly good. My brother, Chris, took delight in letting us know it was currently 29° in Dubrovnik, but, with a high of 27° on Thursday, Ullapool wasn’t too far behind.

There are several places that claim to serve the best fish and chips in Ullapool, but, after trying the Arch Inn on West Shore Street, I would have to say that (in my experience, so far) they serve the best fish and chips in the whole world. After that it was a pleasant stroll to the McPhail Theatre to see Dochas (and the Feis Rois Ceilidh Trail in support) as part of the 2010 Blas festival. Dochas are a girl band from the Highlands, featuring the incredible Julie Fowlis. I wrote about her last August when she played at Speyfest, but this was the first time Jane and I have seen Dochas, and it definitely won't be the last. As good as Julie is, Jane knows that my highlight, being a repressed bongo player, is her bodhran player, Martin O'Neill (no, not that Martin O'Neill). He has recently been touring with Stevie Wonder (yes, that Stevie Wonder) and, to give you a taste of how good he is look for him on YouTube - Here is one link.
 
After a comfortable stay (as always) at Creagan House B&B, Sunday was going to be a leisurely day. I enjoyed being a typical 'Sunday driver' as we took our time driving around Ross-shire and Sutherland, but, with virtually no other cars on the roads, it wasn't as if I was holding anyone up. We stopped at the Falls of Shin, near Lairg. You may have seen salmon trying to leap up waterfalls on television, but seeing the incredible struggle of the salmon leaping against the full force of a watefall (and succeeding) in real life was spellbinding -we could have stayed all afternoon.
It was hard to imagine that Saturday's feast could be topped, but we managed to do so at The Anderson, in Fortrose on the Black Isle. The website's sample menu is curiously conservative, but the menu we had was impossible to choose from because it had far too many dishes we could not choose between. In the end I tossed a coin and went for fillet of hare with bramble sauce and venison pie, while Jane chose the Black forest chicken (stuffed with gingerbread) and declared that that would be what we are going to have for Christmas dinner (I can't be thinking about Christmas yet).
 
Some people are addicted to gambling, others to drink. Rob Lowe was addicted to sex and Robert Palmer knew someone who was addicted to love. I can understand those, but one addicition I have struggled to understand is fishing. People spend fortunes buying all the equipment ,then spend hours (and hours and hours) waiting for that elusive little fish. And I have never understood why. I remember fondly going out in a boat with my dad and my brothers, throwing a line full of feathers over the side and pulling it up a few minutes later to find several mackerel attached. We would then wrap them in foil and throw them on a campfire we had made - NOTHING tastes better. And I guess I vaguely remember a sense of excitement as we pulled those lines up, but this was mainly linked to the expectation of dinner. But even that did nothing to make me want to sit by some water for hours, watching a line (and I like sitting by water).
Peter likes his fishing, although 'addicted' would be (slightly) too strong a word in his case, and always brings a fishing rod with him when he and mum fly up here. So, Monday morning, when mum and Jane wanted to do girly things like nails and shopping, I thought Peter and me could do something manly - fishing. Peter would be able to demonstrate what I had been missing out on.
From inside the weather looked fantastic, but, outside, it was blowing a hoolie, a real sgal. Regardless, we set off for the loch. Peter deliberated over which fly to use - are the fish that fussy? - then carefully picked the best spot (I'm not sure what criteria decided this). I didn't seem to be missing that much, so I spent a few hours reading The Book Thief. There was one point when he thought he had a bite but..... no.... it had gone. I quite enjoyed myself, despite cursing the occasional small clouds which blocked the sun for a few seconds at a time and caused the temperature to drop, but I think my enjoyment had more to do with the book than the prospect of Peter catching a fish. Peter explained that the wind was causing waves, which made it hard for him to see where the fish were, but I'm not sure I was convinced by this. Eventually, the wind got the better of him and the prospect of a lunch outside a pub at Findhorn Bay seemed a more enticing way of encountering a fish. Just as we left, a man at a different part of the loch actually caught a real, live fish. For a split-second I thought I saw a trace of enjoyment on his face.
 
So, I remain unconvinced. Obviously Peter and millions (allegedly) of others love their fishing, but live music and good food are much more addictive to me.